


Till the last step have brought me to my love

by BeautifulLife



Series: Kings and Queens [2]
Category: The Selection Series - Kiera Cass
Genre: F/M, Prequel, Royal Wedding, Weddings, bride, not the wedding expected
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 08:29:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16678114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulLife/pseuds/BeautifulLife
Summary: “You’re literally doing my bridesmaid in the cathedral’s choir loft.”Nicole Islay did not raise her voice, because a lady does not yell, and she had worked her ass off to be a lady.History says that Prince Damon of Illéa ended the first Selection by marrying his father's choice, Grace Lowell. How that happened is a little more complicated than history recounts.TW: passing mention of possible non-con between a major character and one or more original characters.





	Till the last step have brought me to my love

“You’re literally fucking my bridesmaid in the cathedral’s choir loft.”

Nicole Islay did not raise her voice, because a lady does not yell, and she had worked her ass off to be a lady.

A lady especially does not yell when she’s addressing the prince of Illéa, while down _below_ the choir loft, every One in the nation is waiting for the wedding, along with a select list of Twos, seventeen reporters, and her terrified family who’d come to Angeles as Eights.

The Sota nasality crept into her voice, though. It always did when she was angry.

The bridesmaid in question, darkly elegant Grace Lowell, had the decency to look embarrassed as she tugged her yellow satin bodice back into place. Of the Elite, Grace was the one whom Nicole had liked least, but Prince Damon’s roaming hands and rushing fingers had sent so many of the others—

Damon grinned. “My bachelor party ran over time.”

His good looks—that whiplash smile, that lock of dark hair falling over his hazel eyes, that perfect nose—had seemed charming when Nicole arrived in Angeles to go through the Selection. “Rakish but redeemable” had been her view by the time she made the Elite.

Over the last weeks of the Selection, “redeemable” had crumbled. The girls he seduced and sent home—

Well, and then Rose running away from the Elite, but Rose took pride in being a wild girl from the Yukon—

But Aureliana from Bonita was born a Two, and a vanishing Two daughter was not a thing that could be brushed away—

“This is the life you’re saving me from,” Damon said, widening both his eyes and his smile, while his hands busied themselves with fastening the trousers of his dress uniform.

Nicole took a deep breath and hit him with her wedding bouquet, so hard that the back of his head thumped an organ pipe, and white rose petals scattered like snow.

“I’m not marrying you.”

 _My family will be furious at losing their Two status_ crossed her mind several seconds ahead of _I just assaulted a prince._

“Nicole, you can’t back out now.”

That was better than calling for a Guard to arrest her. Nicole turned to Grace, who was edging toward the stairs. _She_ probably would call a Guard.

“Grace, did Damon force himself on you?”

“No.” Grace’s dark cheeks were barely a shade redder than usual. _Grace wanted this._ Grace Lowell had been _so_ confident for the whole Selection, as if Damon were already _hers._

“We could switch places,” Nicole heard herself say. “My dress is too small for you, but your mother’s a genius at improvising. She’ll love the challenge almost as much as she’ll love having her daughter be a princess.”

Grace’s perfect oval face lit. Oh yes, she’d love this. Damon has turned as pale as his tan allows, so whatever impressed him about Grace, he hadn’t been angling to have her as his queen.

“Nicole.” Damon’s voice had that little catch in it, the same as it did when he proposed to her. Oh, that burr of suppressed desire and regret—it caught her under the heart, but this time, she didn’t _believe_ it. “I don’t want anyone but you as my queen. I can’t be king without you.”

The bouquet was probably ruined. “Grace, go find your mother and bring her here. If you so much as think about summoning Guards—”

“I won’t. I wouldn’t do that.” Grace flowed down the ladder with the effortless elegance Nicole had worked so hard to imitate.

“Nicole,” Damon said again. He grabbed for her hand, and she swatted him away. “You know you’re the One.”

What she wanted was to feel something. Tears, anger, trembling—anything would be better than the calm that sent ice through her veins. Maybe if she’d loved Damon. . . maybe if she’d even _liked_ him. . . but once Aureliana had sobbed in her arms at midnight about how Damon had cornered her, then _vanished_ with no one willing to say where she’d gone. . .

Saving Damon had still seemed like the noble thing to do. Save Damon, save Illéa, save her family. Be the dream of an Eight elevated to royalty. Be a queen worthy of the country and pull Damon up with her.

None of this was possible.

“Nicole, please. You’re my choice. Don’t give my father what he wants.” A tear slid from the corner of Damon’s right eye, and maybe it was real. Thwarting his father seemed to be one of Damon’s few sincere joys.

“You should have thought of that while you still had your pants buttoned. How did you think I’d react when I caught you?”

“I didn’t think you’d catch us. I didn’t think brides could get those big gowns up the stairs.”

Nicole looked down at her cloud of skirts—layer on layer of tulle, sewn with sequins and pearl beads, so she glittered with every movement. She _loved_ this dress and would never wear anything so pretty again. “That’s the best you can think of. You weren’t supposed to get caught.”

“A man has his needs. It doesn’t interfere with how much I love you.”

“No. It doesn’t.” She turned away at the first hint of his smile. “You don’t love me at all. You don’t love Grace, either, but Grace will go along with your bull shit for the sake of power. I won’t.”

Ladies didn’t refer to _bull shit,_ either. Ladies didn’t climb up to the choir loft in tulle skirts that spread three feet to either side. Ladies didn’t raise a fuss at violations of basic human decency.

“Is there a problem?” Miriam Lowell’s distinctive, low voice cut through whatever nonsense Damon was spewing now. The woman herself—dark, polished, composed, with a rose-colored turban containing her curly hair—looked like what Grace would be distilled into over time.

Nicole straightened her back. Everyone had _that_ reaction to Miriam Lowell, even Grace herself. “I’m not going to marry the prince. Your daughter is. We need to make that happen.”

Miriam and Grace both looked at Damon. It was not until he nodded that Nicole realized she’d somehow retained one tiny of thread of hope that he’d fight for her, that he’d make a case so convincing that she _had to_ be swept off her feet, that he’d _change_ for her. The tears that clogged her throat felt humiliating.

She did not cry until she stepped out of the dress, letting the glittering cloud fall into the hands of one Miriam Lowell. Every movement felt like it echoed in the tiled confines of the ladies’ room.

There was a pale blue dress for her. There was powder for her face and concealer to hide her tears.

In the mirror behind her, she could watch Grace Lowell being buttoned into a white gown that was a simple column of satin. Grace’s dark hair was already brushed smooth and shiny. The long lace veil pinned to it was surely a table cloth in its first life, but nobody was going to argue with the taste of Miriam Lowell.

Outside in the cathedral lobby, King Gregory was waiting for them. He wore all his medals and his second-best crown, and he walked with his hands clasped behind his back to puff out his chest.

“Much better,” he said with a nod to Miriam Lowell.

A royal fanfare accompanied the king down the aisle to his place in the first pew. Damon was already standing by the altar, with skinny Father Bernard in white and gold to his right, and his best man, Brenton Schreave II, to his left.

The wedding march rumbled down from the choir loft. Someone thrust a bouquet of white daisies into Nicole’s hands, and she forced her feet into motion.

She stumbled at the steps, but Brentwo’s hands reached out to steady her. Behind her, Grace Lowell glided down the aisle on her mother’s arm, regal and perfect, her bouquet of daisies and orange blossoms looking as if it had been intended all along.

Miriam Lowell craned her head up as she put her daughter’s hand in Damon’s. “No mass,” she mouthed to the priest. “Keep it short.”

Father Bernard looked from Grace to Nicole to Damon to Nicole’s parents sitting white-faced in the front pew to King Gregory rocking smugly in the opposite front pew. He swallowed hard and flipped through his book.

“Since it is your intention to enter into holy matrimony, join your right hands and declare your intention before God and all his church.”

Grace smiled as she laid her dark hand in Damon’s tanned one. The prince’s face had a greenish tinge that Nicole, now holding both bouquets, couldn’t find it in her heart to feel sorry for. Pale Brentwo bit his lip.

“I, Damon, take you, Grace, for my lawful wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.” His voice broke on the final phrase.

Grace’s voice was strong and calm. “I, Grace, take you, Damon, for my lawful husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.”

“What God has joined together, let no man put asunder.” Father Bernard held out his open book. “The rings?”

Heat flooded Nicole as she realized that she had no ring for Grace to give Damon. The one she’d intended to use was in a cleverly concealed pocket of her beautiful lost wedding gown, and if she got it back, she had no idea what she’d do with it.

“Ring,” Brentwo said, taking one from his pocket and dropping it on the book.

“One ring,” Father Bernard muttered. He blessed it hastily, muttering so the words ran together, then offered it to Damon.

“Grace, receive this ring,” Damon said as he slid it onto her finger. “It’s a sign of my love and fidelity—”

A giggle pushed its way past the tears in Nicole’s throat and burst loose. _Fidelity_. The giggles wouldn’t stop. People were staring, but it was _funny,_ to hear Damon pledge fidelity. It was all a lie, this whole thing was a lie, playing at being kings and queens when everyone was out for themselves—

The warm hand on her elbow was accompanied by a warm voice in her ear. “We’re going to sit down now, Miss Islay. They don’t need us to help them get crowned.”

Brentwo guided her to an empty spot in the royal pew, sat beside her, and handed her a handkerchief. “You don’t have to watch any of this,” he whispered.

A lady would sit up straight and watch, but she _wasn’t_ a lady. Nicole set her forehead against Brentwo’s shoulder and pretended not to listen to Grace Lowell answering the questions about whether she’d be a faithful princess of Illéa.

All of her work to win the Selection, to prove an Eight was good enough, and it came down to sitting here, dripping tears into Brentwo’s shoulder while Grace Lowell was crowned.

“Would you mind very much marrying me?” Brentwo whispered in her ear. Grace and Damon were sweeping out of the cathedral with a fanfare. King Gregory followed them, waving to some favored subjects. Father Bernard hadn’t budged from his position in front of the altar.

Nicole’s heart stalled in its cold puddle of humiliation. “Did you just. . . did you just. . ?”

“Propose. Yes.” The pale green eyes gazing into hers were warm with concern—well, it was Brentwo, he’d been a gentleman for the whole Selection, always kind and considerate.

“I barely. . . I know you as well as I knew Damon, don’t I?”

“Better, maybe, since I don’t have anything to lie to you about.”

“Why marry me?”

“It protects you and your family from the king’s whims. Or Damon’s. Or Grace’s. You don’t want to end up whipped and exiled, or whatever might occur to any of them in the middle of the night. They _ought_ to be happy they got Grace into the royal family, but with Uncle Gregory, you never know.”

Nicole shuddered, then couldn’t stop trembling.

“It’d also give the gossip press something to do other than jump all over you. Let me take some of that burden from you.”

“Thank you.” The words pressed themselves around the pounding of her heart.

“For what it’s worth, I love you. I don’t ask you to love me back immediately, but I’ll do everything possible to make you want to.”

He would, too. He’d be decent and kind and truthful, and he wouldn’t ask her to save him from the monsters that he invited in.

“Yes.” The word was all Nicole could manage, but it must have been enough, as Brentwo helped her to her feet and led her forward. Her family crowded forward, and she forced a smile. “It’s all right, Ma. It’s all right, Pa. It’ll all be fine.”

She let her oldest sister take her bouquet. Behind Brentwo, his father and mother had stepped forward.

“I, Brenton, take you, Nicole, for my lawful wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.” Brentwo’s voice caressed the words.

Nicole’s trembling stilled as she took a deep breath. “I, Nicole, take you, Brenton, for my lawful husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.”

To her surprise, Brentwo offered Father Bernard a ring. “I hope you don’t mind my grandfather’s signet.”

“It’s fine.” She could breathe again. Looking up at Brentwo loosened her chest and thawed her icy veins.

“If you want a ring for him—” Her mother held out a circle of plastic. “It’s not what he’s used to, but a wedding should have rings.”

“Please,” Brentwo said. “I’d be honored.”

Laid on Father Bernard’s open book to be blessed, the signet and the plastic ring looked pathetically mismatched. But there were tears in Brentwo’s eyes when she slid the circle of plastic onto his finger and promised her faithfulness.

When he kissed her for the first time, Nicole felt a flare of some internal fire that slid through her like lightning, quickened her breathing, and tightened her grip on his broad shoulders. This was not the purely physical tingle inspired by Damon’s practiced kissing. It wasn’t love _yet,_ either. But it could be, and turning in the circle of Brentwo’s arms to accept the hugs from both their families, she felt _safe_.

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a different story. I'd been planning a story about the first Selection, with Grace Lowell as the cool-headed and gracious hero and Nicole as the striving Eight whose Cinderella story takes her just short of the crown -- and this happened instead. The title is a quotation from Shakespeare's Two Gentlemen of Verona.
> 
> There was even a plan for the two named OCs who ran away from lecherous Prince Damon rather than being sent home. Rose, the wild one from Yukon, is to meet and marry Spencer Illéa. Aureliana, the tragic one from Bonita, is to pull herself together and found the Southern Rebels.


End file.
